Simply Gone
by RaggedySherlock
Summary: Superwholock crossover. When Castiel, John Watson, and Clara Oswald all go missing from their daily lives and transported to an alternate universe, Sherlock Holmes and Dean Winchester seek help from the strange man known as the Doctor. Dean/Castiel, Doctor/Clara (?), Sherlock/John.
1. Chapter 1

**_Chapter 1_**

_DAY ONE_

_221B BAKER STREET_

"Sherlock." John Watson's voice echoes from the stairwell of 221B. "Sherlock," he calls again.

"I'm in here, John." Sherlock is in the kitchen, where he is examining something under his microscope at the table.

John turns from the staircase and into the kitchen, looking around as if distracted. "So I take it the case is solved?" He stands behind Sherlock's chair, looking over his shoulder at the cluttered mess on the table of notes and other experiments.

"Of course it is, it was quite easy. Hardly worth my time," Sherlock says distractedly.

John smiles and wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck from behind. "Well done, Mr. Holmes," he whispers into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock stiffens nervously at John's touch, his mind racing at twice its normal speed. "It was—it was nothing. I'm sure Lestrade could have handled it on his own."

"Are you trying to be modest, Sherlock Holmes?" John teases. "Do I make you nervous?" he asks, his voice regaining its normal volume.

John doesn't wait for a reply, which is a relief for Sherlock, because he can't think of one. John kisses the top of Sherlock's mop of brown hair before returning to the living room, where he sits down on the couch, opening a newspaper.

It had taken a long time, but as soon as John had been ready to fess up to his feelings for the consulting detective, Sherlock had long since had feelings for John. Though his pride only allowed to admit it once, Sherlock loved John. And John _did_ make him nervous—nervous that he would mess up. Nervous that he would say something wrong or hurtful to John. Nervous, nervous, nervous.

Sherlock had never doubted himself all his life, but with John… that was a different story. He was constantly stumbling over his words, confused, falling, breaking, turning around to double-check his actions. It was maddening that someone, _anyone_, could make the statue that is Sherlock Holmes actually feel an emotion, especially one so vulnerable as love.

And yet, Sherlock still loved.

"So, with the case, who was the—" John stops abruptly in the middle of his sentence.

"Who was the what?" Sherlock asks after a moment when John doesn't continue.

"John," Sherlock says after a minute. Still, nothing. "John, what are you—?" Sherlock looks up from the microscope, but he cannot see John.

"John?" he asks, getting up from his chair. But the only thing that marks that John was ever in there is the newspaper, which has fallen to the floor. "John."

There is no reply.

He is… gone. Just gone.

* * *

_THE T.A.R.D.I.S._

"So where to next, Doctor?" Clara asks, sitting down on the steps in the TARDIS console room.

"I was thinking we could go to the Moons of Caesar—what a place," the Doctor says, walking around the console. "Or we could go to Barcelona—not the city Barcelona, the _planet_ Barcelona. Or do you want to keep it local, say, Mars? Actually let's steer clear of Mars. Nothing good ever comes from Mars, I tell you. Nothing." He pulls levers and pushes buttons seemingly at random, but somehow the TARDIS flies smoothly, without rocking around or bursting into flames (which _did_ happen last week, but that's a story for another time).

Clara stared at the Doctor, amazed that such a man could even exist. This is the kind of man that you read about in fairy tales, the kind of man that couldn't possibly exist solely because he was too good to be true. Clara often asked herself if this was even real, if she was even alive. Because this must be heaven.

The Doctor glanced at Clara, smiling at her. She was wonderful in a different kind of way—brave, but not sickeningly so. Not brave in the way where she felt she had to prove herself every chance she got. She knew when to back off because something was too powerful, and she knew when to run and when to fight. She was very different from the companions he had before. She didn't glorify him like some had before, yet she didn't feel superior to him. She was… new.

"So where will it be Miss Clara Oswald?" the Doctor asks, smiling, his purple coat fluttering behind him. "All of space and time—it's completely your—" the Doctor turns to where Clara was sitting only to find that she is no longer there.

"Clara?" he calls, turning around on the spot, confused. But she's nowhere to be seen. "Clara!"

But she's gone.

* * *

_LEBANON, KANSAS_

Dean and Castiel sat across from each other in the Bunker. It had been months since the trials, months since Sam's disappearance and months since Castiel became human. Life was insanely different, but Dean was learning to cope, slowly.

Castiel helped, too. Though Dean was reluctant to admit it, Castiel was the only reason that Dean hadn't gone insane. Dean didn't know what happened to Sam—all he knows is that he disappeared just before the third trial had ever been completed.

Frankly, life sucked. But that's pretty much how life always was for the Winchesters. Dean was just sorry that Castiel had been pulled into it. As he'd been reminded before, Dean knew that Castiel had rebelled because of him. _For_ him.

"Dean," Cas says. His voice is low, quiet, even though they are the only two in the room; as if he doesn't want to disturb the perfectly deafening silence that has been built around them.

It had been days since they had last spoken—Dean often went days without speaking since Sam's disappearance. Cas hated it, but he didn't want to make Dean angry. So, often, there were days filled with silence even though they sat across from each other at breakfast, or in the library, or when watching something on TV.

But absolute silence was better than crippling alcoholism, which Castiel made Dean promise not to fall into the week after Sam's disappearance. So far, he had kept his promise. But Cas still kept a watchful eye.

But Cas wasn't perfect himself. Dean watched Castiel, too. Realizing that he was powerless had taken quite a toll on Cas, and Dean was afraid that would fall to earthly devils—drugs, alcohol, depression, bad music.

Dean barely heard Cas speak, at first he thought he imagined it. But when he looked up, Cas' level gaze met his own.

"Yes, Cas?" Dean asks wearily.

"Dean," Cas starts, trying to form his sentence together. "You—we can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" Dean asks with a sigh of annoyance.

"You know what I mean. Not talking to each other for days on end, doing research for no reason at all—we're not going to find Sam, and you know it."

"_The hell we won't_!" Dean yells, shooting to his feet so fast that his chair falls backwards. His cry echoes through the library, and Cas is barely fazed by it. Even though he's a human now, Cas hasn't lost the stony demeanor that he had when he was an angel.

"Dean," Cas says calmly, "there's no way to find him. Crowley said that he just disappeared before his eyes. It's been months, and we've found nothing."

"I'm not giving up on him, Cas," Dean growls. "He's my brother. I don't care if he's dead, I'm going to find him one way or another."

"I'm just—"

"You wouldn't understand," Dean interrupts.

"I'll understand a _hell_ of a lot more if you wouldn't keep pushing me away!" Cas snaps, standing up. "You don't think I understand? I have brothers and sisters, too, Dean! I had to kill some of them myself. I've committed homicide, against my own family! And if you don't remember, there was a time when I wanted to kill _myself_! So don't you dare tell me that I don't understand."

Dean stares at Cas, dumbfounded. He hadn't seen Cas get angry in a long time, not since he was an angel. Before Dean realizes what he's doing, he's walking around the table so he can be on the same side as Castiel. He puts his hands on Cas' shoulders, gripping him tightly.

"Cas," he says, for lack of a better thing to say. "Cas, I… I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. Ever since Sam—left, I just haven't been thinking right."

"Dean… Why can't you just see? You're not completely alone. I'm—"

But suddenly, Cas wasn't in front of him.

Gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**_CHAPTER 2_**

_221B BAKER STREET—alternate universe_

Clara stumbles to the floor, landing on her hands and knees. Her insides feel like they're on fire. She groans, holding her stomach with one arm.

"Who the hell are you?" a voice asks.

Clara looks up to see a man pointing a gun at her. His blond hair looks tousled and singed, and his bloodshot eyes are full of white-hot rage.

"Where's Sherlock?" the man asks, his hands shaking with anger.

"Sherlock? Who—" Clara starts.

"Don't play games with me!" the man growls. "The man that was here, the man with the suit jacket and the brown hair."

"I'm sorry, mate, but I have no idea who you're talking about," Clara says, holding her hands up in surrender. "Please, I'm unarmed—just… just lower the gun."

He glares at her a second more before slowly lowering the gun.

"Thank you," she sighs. "Do you—where am I?"

The man pulls his eyebrows together in confusion. "Baker Street—221B, Baker Street."

"How did… how did I get here?"

The man opens his mouth to answer, but is cut off by the appearance of another man, this one with dark hair.

"—in love—" the man says, sounding as if he was in the middle of a sentence. He stops, startled.

"Oh, God, not another one."

"I—" the man says, confused. Then he suddenly drops to the floor, as if just realizing he was in immense amounts of pain.

"That was a magnificent delayed reaction," Clara notes.

The new man gasps, rolling onto his back. His eyes are impossibly wide with pain.

"It'll subside," the blond-haired man says. "I felt it too, except…"

"Wait," Clara says. "What's going on? One moment, I was in the TARDIS, and the next—"

"In the _what_?"

Clara falters, realizing that she's said too much. She tries to cover her tracks, doing a poor job. "The TARDI—ah, never mind," she says awkwardly. "Um, so what's your name?"

The man hesitates for a moment before answering. "John. John Watson." He offers a hand to help her to her feet. "And you are?"

"Clara. Clara Oswald."

Meanwhile, the other man is taking deep breaths while struggling to his feet on his own.

"How you holding up, mate?" John asks.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice low and accent distinctly American. "Who are you two?"

"I'm John Watson and this is Clara Oswald, hi," John says bluntly.

"And your name is…?" Clara asks.

"Castiel."

"No last name?" Clara prompts.

"No," Castiel says curtly.

Clara blinks in bewilderment, and John shares a surprised glance with her.

"Well, okay then, Castiel." Clara often sees surprising things, but they're usually when she's with the Doctor.

"Hello?" says a loud, masculine voice from the bedroom.

Castiel perks up at the sound of the voice, but then confusion crosses his face.

"There's bloody more of them?" John says in disgust.

"Wait…" Castiel says, moving towards the bedroom, then faltering. "No, it can't…"

"What's going on?" Clara asks.

The owner of the voice comes into the living room—he's very tall, and very confused.

The man stops as soon as he sees the gathering in the living room, his eyes resting on Castiel.

"Castiel," he whispers in disbelief.

Castiel smiles a brilliant smile, his blue eyes bright with excitement. "Hello, Sam," he says.

* * *

_LEBANON, KANSAS_

Dean pulls books off the shelf at random in his panic—anything that even _looks_ like it could be helpful. Then he scrambles back to the table that Castiel had previously been sitting at with him, flipping rapidly through books, finding nothing.

"Come on!" he says to himself, tossing one book aside when it didn't give him the information he wanted. "There's gotta be something… someone…"

"Goddammit!" he yells after a moment, slamming his hand down on the book in front of him. A searing pain registers in his brain when he realizes that he's cut his hand on the rigid corner of the book in front of him, dripping blood onto the pages. "Son of a _bitch_," he growls to himself.

Not wanting to get up and waste time trying to find a bandage, he grabs his t-shirt and rips off part of the hem and wraps it around the cut. He tosses the book aside after a moment and picks up another—one that looks especially old and tattered. He turns it open, reading this one a little more in-depth.

Now Dean was completely alone. No brother, no Cas. Kevin was gone, Charlie was three states over. Even _Garth_ was MIA.

He can't focus. He's just lost Castiel—one of his best friends.

_Maybe even more than that,_ Dean dares to think. But he stops himself from advancing any more on the subject. To think about how things _could_ have been… that was always painful for Dean.

Trying to distract himself, he returns to the book in front of him. Then a line in the book catches his eye:

_The Doctor is a mysterious figure in history. He is depicted to have multiple faces/bodies and travel with companions in a blue police call box. The Doctor will often disappear for long stretches of time and show up in times of distress. Though he has saved many lives, these conflicts often result in the loss of many. Many believe he is a time-traveler and an alien, belonging to the race known as the Time Lords. Though he looks human, he is said to have a bi-cardiovascular system, and the power to "regenerate" as means of repairing his body in times of fatal distress. Many Time Lords are said to reach extremely old ages, easily living up to more than 900 years._

Dean runs his hand over the page. This could be the person he's looking for.

* * *

_221B BAKER STREET_

A whooshing noise fills up Sherlock's flat, when suddenly a large blue police box fills the living room. Sherlock gets to his feet curiously, having just collapsed when he realized that John had most likely been taken or kidnapped somehow, right under Sherlock's nose.

A strange man emerges from the box, wielding a strange device with a green light, emitting a high-pitched buzzing noise. He wears a purple tweed jacket and dons a bow tie.

He points the device at the chair where John was sitting, almost like he's scanning it. And then he holds it close to his face, as if reading information.

"No, no! I just, _just _missed it!" the strange man yells angrily.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asks, slowly approaching the man curiously.

The man barks a laugh, smiling. "I'm the Doctor. Nice to meet you."

"Do—do you know where he went?" Sherlock asks.

"Where who—?"

"My… friend, John. John Watson. He was just there, sitting on the couch. And then he was… gone."

The Doctor's smile falters. "Your friend, too, huh? No, I don't know where he went, not yet. But I can find out." The Doctor looks soberly upon the poor man. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, Mr. Holmes... grab your coat and follow me." The Doctor disappears inside the box. Sherlock grabs his blue coat from where it hangs on a hook behind the door to his bedroom, following the Doctor into the box.

Inside the blue box was slightly surprising to Sherlock. It was large, immense. Bigger on the inside.

Mind racing, Sherlock shuts the door behind him, a small smile cracking through his usually stoic features.

"So what are you?" Sherlock asks.

"Pardon?" the Doctor asks.

"What are you? Obviously you're not from Earth. Or at least not this time period."

"How did you know that?" the Doctor asks, pulling levers on what seems to be a control console.

"It's not hard to connect the dots, Doctor—a strange man breaks into my flat with a strange device in his hand, waving it around, holding it up to his face as if he's got readings—obviously it's some form of advanced technology, same with this box. It appeared out of nowhere, there's nothing on Earth that can do that, not yet. And those markings, on those screens. That's got to be a language, not just some random design. So there's only two options, you're not from around here or you're not from around now. Which is it?"

The Doctor cracks a smile. "You're a clever one, aren't you?"

"I've been informed."

The Doctor stares at Sherlock, as if in awe. "You're right. I'm not a human. I'm a Time Lord. Last of the Time Lords, actually… And this is my TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension in Space. She travels anywhere in space and time, and she's mine."

"Is she broken?"

"What?"

"Is she broken?" Sherlock repeats. "If I were travelling in space and time, I'd want a subtler disguise than a nineteen-fifty's police call box, don't you think?"

The Doctor smiles. "Oh, I like you. You're smart. Not all of those who come in here are this smart."

Sherlock sighs, "Well, knowledge is everything to my profession."

A high pitched beeping noise is emitted from one of the monitors on the control console. The Doctor rushes over studying the reading that the TARDIS has just given him.

Then he runs around the console, entering information. "There's been another one!" he yells hopefully.

"Another what?" Sherlock asks, sitting down in a chair just in front of the console.

"Disappearance. You see, Sherlock, John was… pulled out of this universe. Probably by accident, but you never know. The universe sometimes has cracks in it, where all of space and time just bleed through. My friend… Clara… she was taken, too. I showed up in your flat because the TARDIS detected the same energy in your flat, and I was trying to find a way to safely be able to pull her out. But the crack was sealed before I had the chance. And now another has just opened."

"Where?" Sherlock asks, drinking all this new knowledge in.

"Lebanon, Kansas."


	3. Chapter 3

**_CHAPTER 3_**

_LEBANON, KANSAS_

Dean knows that this strange man, thing, alien, whatever—he knows that the Doctor is his only hope. But the Doctor only comes in times of great distress, and sometimes he goes centuries without being seen. This man was not a demon or a ghost—there was no sure way to summon him. A random disappearing human would never attract the attention of a living legend such as this. And even if it did, how did he even know if the Doctor was real? He sounded a bit too wonky to be real. I mean, an alien with two hearts and multiple faces that travels in space and time using a blue box? Even for the Winchesters, this was weird.

Dean read further into the book, but this seemed to be all the information known about the Doctor, except for the sketches of the known reincarnations of the Doctor. The books said that as the Doctor travels more, more faces could be added.

Dean was just thinking about how he could start a global catastrophe when a _whoosh_ing sound fills the library, a sudden gust of wind making the pages of the books flap. Dean turns just in time to see a blue box land materialize in the middle of his library.

"What the—" Dean starts to say, when a man opens the door to the box and enters his library.

"Shut up a second," the man says, pulling out a device that makes annoying high-pitched buzzing noises.

Another man follows behind the first, saying "Doctor, the readings are gone."

"Yes, we've just missed it."

"'Doctor'?" Dean repeats.

"That's my name," the man says.

"_The _Doctor?" Dean repeats in disbelief.

The man smiles. "Well, yes. I guess so."

"I know you," Dean says, a smile cracking through his pained expression. "Doctor, I—I need your help."

"Oh, God, another one?" the Doctor says, angry. He turns to the man in doorway of the blue box. "Well, come on, then."

"What?" Dean asks, confused.

"Well, Sherly here—"

"If you ever call me 'Sherly' again, I'll have to murder you," the man from the doors of the blue box interjects.

"—well, Sherlock here," the Doctor says, not missing a beat, "he's lost a friend of his, what was his name again? John Watson. Same as you. Disappeared into thin air, right?"

"Yes," Dean says skeptically.

"Well, I know a way to get them back, but we've got to hurry, because the TARDIS can only track the energy from the rupture if it's fresh enough, and well, I would rather not keep her waiting. So, come along—what's your name?"

"Dean Winchester."

"De—" the Doctor stops, as if in shock, but then plows forward. "Dean Winchester. Brilliant, lovely, into the TARDIS with you."

Dean can't help but notice the hesitation in the Doctor's speech. He doesn't think that the Doctor will try to kill him, but Dean checks to make sure that the gun in the waistband of his jeans is still secure.

The TARDIS was somewhat of a shock to Dean, because the boy was still used to walking into buildings that were the same size on the outside as on the inside. But it didn't take very long for the shock to wear off. Dean had seen worse, and scarier, and crazier. Bigger-on-the-inside was just another part of the job.

* * *

**_DAY 3_**

_221B BAKER STREET—alternate universe_

Though the members of our story did not realize it, time was passing at a faster rate in their universe than in the parallel universe from which they'd originated from. Already, they had spent three days in the flat on Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson was wondering if she'd have to start charging them rent. She claimed that Sam Winchester had been there for nearly a year, and that she'd never laid eyes on John before even though he knew all about her.

Clara had put a few things together about this universe. In this universe, the Doctor wasn't there. He might have died at a younger age, or maybe he had never been born at all. But, anyway, there were no stars in the sky. The overall climate temperature was colder, and they were not in the Milky Way Galaxy anymore. Earth had been "stolen", or moved out of place by Daleks, but the Daleks had mysteriously been wiped out but a woman by the name of Rose Tyler. Sadly, though, Rose had dropped off the face of the Earth several years before with a man named John Smith. Apparently, he had great hair.

Sherlock never lived in this universe, either. John had noticed the difference. Mrs. Hudson still lived with her husband, and many people around the London area still lived in fear of several murderers, including the Spider and the homicide/suicide deaths. Jim Moriarty was a name not yet known, and the Reichenbach Hero was nonexistent.

Dean and Sam Winchester apparently were not alive. They had died years ago, in 2005, when Sam had gotten stuck in a burning house, and his older brother rushed in to save him. The apocalypse was an inch away from happening, yet there was no way for it to take place, as there was no one to set Lucifer free, and no vessels for Michael and Lucifer to take.

In short, the world was an absolute mess.

Sam Winchester, who, as mentioned before, arrived in 221B Baker Street nearly a year ago. Sam had tried to get back into hunting, but there was barely any way to hunt in the heart of London without getting caught by the police. And, honestly, there was nowhere else for him to go. He had no money to try to get back to America, to get back to Lebanon where he could go and hide in the Bunker. And it didn't take much research to find that all of Sam and Dean's friends were dead, or nonexistent, except for Ellen and Jo. But they didn't even know who Sam was to begin with, same with Kevin; Bobby had put a bullet through his head years ago, Garth had gotten himself killed on a hunt… the list could go on.

Slowly, but surely, the four were learning what they wanted or needed to do.

Though it seemed impossible, it looked like they need to fix this universe. By themselves.

* * *

[A/N: Thank you all so much for the follows/favorites! Reviews are always accepted. And please, if I've made a grammar mistake, please don't hesitate to tell me so I can fix it. I'll post another chapter soon! Love you all! Thanks so much!]


	4. Chapter 4

**_CHAPTER 4_**

**_DAY 3_**

_The TARDIS_

Dean sat in the TARDIS console room silently while the Doctor fiddled with the controls. Last night had been rough for all of them. When it had grown late, Sherlock retired to the library instead of his room, the Doctor sat on the stairs of the TARDIS console room for hours straight without moving, and Dean picked a bedroom and spent the hours in there until what could be considered "morning" in a time machine.

The three were not a very talkative bunch, except for the Doctor. When Sherlock talked it was mostly to ask questions. And when Dean talked, he was actually yelling, and he was having a nightmare.

The Doctor worked hard on tracking the energy from the rupture, but no new ruptures had opened in two days, and the trail was growing cold. The Doctor said that the TARDIS was just floating around in empty space, trying to hone in on a new rupture where, hopefully, they'd be able to reach in and grab their friends and pull them back into the right universe.

"So, Doc," Dean said, breaking the silence. The Doctor jumped when he heard Dean's voice, he had completely forgotten that he was there, or that he even had the ability to speak. "What's going on?"

The Doctor didn't like talking to Dean very much; in fact, he didn't like being in the same room as Dean very much. He'd heard a lot about Dean. He's avoided him as much as possible. He's the reason why he hadn't gone to America very much in the past twenty or so years.

"Uh, uh, nothing so far. The TARDIS is just bouncing all over empty space right now. I made it so she can take us to where ever there's a new rupture automatically, but now she's just appearing and reappearing somewhere else every second or so—I don't know what's wrong with her."

Dean noticed the nervousness in the Doctor's voice, and leaned forward with a skeptical look on his face. Dean stood, walking around the TARDIS console.

"Doctor," Dean says, "what's going on? Why do you brush me off like that every time I try to talk to you?"

For a second, the Doctor doesn't answer. He's trying to decide whether or not he should tell the truth. But he decides that Dean is too smart and too untrusting to believe just anything that the Doctor would tell him, so he decides on the truth.

"Dean Winchester," the Doctor says softly, staring into the light being emitted from the center of the console. "I've heard of you before. Quite a lot before. The monster-hunter."

"And I've read about you," Dean says gruffly. "What's the problem?"

"I always avoided coming to America because of you," the Doctor says quietly. "Because I always figured that if I came under your radar, then I would be something that you would want to hunt."

It takes a moment for the Doctor's words to register in Dean's brain. "What," Dean says. It's more of a statement than an actual question; a show of disbelief. "Why would I want to kill you?"

The Doctor looks slowly over to Dean, a look in his face that takes a moment for Dean to recognize.

"Oh," Dean says, the realization hitting him. "You think you're a monster." There's a beat of silence. "Doctor, I'm not going to kill you. You're a good man."

"I've killed people, Dean. Innocent people."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was! With you I understand, you don't have any other choice but me—Dean, those people were by-standers. They weren't doing anything, they hadn't done anything _wrong_—"

"This is my whole life story you're repeating to me, here," Dean interrupts. "Why is it okay when _I_ do it, but not okay when _you_ do it?"

"It's not the same."

"I know about you, Doctor. You've saved people—whole planets, whole _galaxies_. No one asked you to, and no one thanked you later." Dean looked like he was struggling with this. "Yes, Doctor, you've hurt people, but—"

"It would be easier if I was just one thing, wouldn't it?" the Doctor asks, turning to look at Dean with strange, age-old eyes.

"What?"

"It would be easy to like me if I was _just_ the madman in the blue box that travelled around the universe saving people, and it would be easy to hate me if I was _just_ the man who wandered around the stars, murdering innocent bystanders. But instead I'm both. But since you need my help, you're saying that I am not a murderer. But flattery won't work with me, Dean Winchester—no, it won't."

Dean stops for a second. "Doctor, we're the same," Dean says. "Except, I know I've got a one-way ticket to hell when I've done my time up here, and I know that you're going to Cloud Nine. Okay? I'm not hunting you because I know… I know that you're helping. Yeah, you've made mistakes. We've all made mistakes, that's what we do."

"I've lead people to their deaths, Dean," the Doctor whispers. "Innocent people. Good people. And I've hurt them in unimaginable ways. I've left them behind, and they've forgotten me and I've put them in so much danger until they can't sleep at night. But they don't hate me, Dean. That's the worst part." The Doctor looked over at Dean, his teeth gritted and fists clenched. "They forgive me, over and over, but they shouldn't have to be the ones to forgive me. They should hate me, they should run away from me! Why don't they understand!?"

The Doctor slams his fists on the TARDIS console, the metal shaking with the force of the blow.

"Clara," he whispers. "She has been the best to me. She has saved me more times than I will ever know. I was dying a thousand times, all at once—the pain was unimaginable… but then she… she sacrificed herself for me. She could have died. I could have lost her again—another one. But she…"

The Doctor trails off, and Dean can see how much pain he's in, how much he's lost. He leaves him to his thoughts for a second.

"Doctor, you're not a monster. People love you so much for reason. And I will never try to kill you. You deserve to live."

Dean turns and walks up the stairs, catching a glimpse of Sherlock turning around and heading back to the library. Dean wonders how long he's been listening to the conversation between Dean and the Doctor.

* * *

Sherlock sits in the library, at a table, his head resting on his folded hands. There are books stacked and stacked around the table, which he has already read. Most of the knowledge is nonsense, and he's already stashed it in the dustiest corner of his mind where he won't care about it. If there's one good thing about the TARDIS, it's that there is endless supply for distraction.

It would be perfect if John was on board with them, but Sherlock does his best to not think about John. Sherlock's good with being on his own, but when he stops to think about John, for some reason, it just becomes… more difficult.

"So what's your sob story?" asks a voice from behind Sherlock.

Sherlock turns, finding Dean. Sherlock doesn't care much for Dean, and Dean doesn't care much for Sherlock. The one time they talked, it turned into an argument, in which Sherlock called Dean an idiot and Dean called Sherlock a pompous asshole, and Sherlock was genuinely surprised that Dean had a vocabulary vast enough so that it contained the word "pompous". But when he expressed his surprise to Dean, he nearly tried to kill him. If the Doctor hadn't been there, Dean would have left Sherlock in tatters.

"I think with your emotions too much, Dean," Sherlock says. "Emotions get in the way."

"I know exactly what you think about me, Sherly," Dean says. "But you didn't answer my question."

Sherlock glances at Dean before returning to the book in front of him.

"I know you were listening to us," Dean says. "Me and the Doctor. And I know your attention span is like a ten-year-old with ADD and hopped up on sugar, so why did you stick around to listen? Something must have intrigued you."

"You're getting smarter. I can feel my hope for humanity rising by the moment."

"I didn't come here to be insulted by some arrogant British dick or listen to the chick flick moments of an angst-y two-hearted alien. Just tell me and I'll go, okay? I'm curious."

"Your stubbornness is quite extraordinary. Is that why _you_ weren't pulled into the rupture of space and time and your idiot friend was?"

Dean suddenly grabbed Sherlock's chair and turned it to face him so quickly that even Sherlock was slightly surprised at this show of hostility.

"First of all, Castiel is not an idiot. And he's twice the man that you'll ever be—and he hasn't even been human for a year yet, you asshole. Secondly, I can see it. You try to pass yourself off as above emotions, but I know the look—trust me, I know the look. You're in love. With who—John?"

Sherlock is silent.

"I know your type. You try to act above it all, like you're untouchable. But underneath, you're just as scared as we are. You don't want to lose him. So stop acting like such an insufferable prick for a change, would you?"

Sherlock's upper lip twitches, almost like a snarl, but before Sherlock can offer a rebuttal, the Doctor's voice carries from the console room.

_"Dean! Sherlock!"_

When the two rush into the console room, the light is extra bright, and the TARDIS' whooshing is audible from inside.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asks, holding on to the rail as a tremor runs through the ship.

"I've found one—another rupture. We can pull them out."


	5. Chapter 5

_**CHAPTER 5**_

_**DAY 14**_

_221B BAKER STREET—alternate universe_

The flat had gotten quite dirty in the past few days. John and Clara had bought the flat downstairs, 221C, when it became evident that they may be here for a while. Clara still hoped that the Doctor wouldn't just leave them behind, but it was becoming clearer and clearer—they were not going to be saved. At least, not any time soon. But she still refused to believe that the Doctor wasn't still trying his hardest.

Sam wandered into the living room, where, even though they live downstairs, John and Clara still liked to hang around. John sat on his laptop, typing peckishly. John had lost a lot of weight since he first came here. He barely ate, barely slept. He didn't talk much about that man, Sherlock Holmes, but Sam could figure that John and Sherlock had something a bit more than just friendship.

Castiel had caught Sam up on the past few months, and they both realized that time was passing faster in the universe that they are presently in and their home universe. They wondered if they should start hunting again, but it would be harder when they were in the heart of London, and they didn't want to draw attention to themselves.

Sam sat on the couch, next to Clara, who was reading a book from the shelf. Sam really liked Clara, but thought it best to keep his distance from her, because often the girls he like end up being monsters, dead, or dead monsters. He didn't really want to jinx it.

"Any news?" Sam asks. "Disturbances in the Force?"

Clara gave Sam a "did you really just pull that reference" look and Castiel narrowed his eyes and John gave a silent expression like "please kill me now".

"Nothing," John said. "Look, I know you guys want to save the world or whatever, but maybe people here don't really want to be saved. Or maybe they just don't care. We're kind of the only ones that do."

"How can they not care?" Sam asks.

"Maybe we came too late," Clara says. "Maybe we should just… let them be."

"Okay, maybe they don't care about being saved but I sure as hell don't want to live in a crap universe like this," Sam says. "So we might as well save ourselves and drag everyone along with us."

"Maybe we weren't meant to be here at all," Castiel says. "Maybe it was just a coincidence."

"There's no such thing as a coincidence," Clara, Sam, and John all say at once.

Sam laughs loudly—he hasn't laughed in what's felt like years. Maybe it _has_ been years. John chuckles, a small and semi-ironic smile cracking through his expression. Clara smiles brightly and laughs. Castiel smiles, just a little bit.

Clara jumps in, "But what if, maybe it was? The Doctor's always telling me how there's these cracks in space and time, and sometimes they spill over into other universes."

"Yeah, but then why'd we all just happen to show up in the same flat on the same day, almost all of us within five minute of each other?" John supplies. "That's not a coincidence, I don't think."

"Maybe the angels set it up," Castiel says to Sam.

"What? Angels?" Clara asks.

Though they've been together for two weeks, Castiel has never had the time to explain his situation to the others. He's always just been afraid that they won't believe him, because now that he's become human, there's no way for him to prove it.

"Yeah, angels," Sam says. "Angels, demons, vampires, werewolves, ghosts. Anything. We used to hunt them."

"You would hunt _angels_?" Clara says, flabbergasted.

"Only the ones that tried to hunt us first," Sam says, almost defensively. "Cas here—we never tried to hunt _him_ or anything."

Meanwhile, John sits in the corner, confused. "Wait, wait—what? How come you never told us this? You just said 'we used to hunt together'. Never anything else."

"Does it matter?" Castiel says, annoyed. "What's passed is past now."

Clara gave Sam a look that said "you're going to tell us everything later—_everything_."

Castiel sighs. "We should really be focusing on—"

Suddenly, a bright light tore through the living room, making everyone in the room cover their eyes and ears as the sound of a human scream ripped through the air.

* * *

_**DAY 3**_

_The TARDIS_

The TARDIS console grows brighter and brighter with every passing second, making the trio have to cover their eyes. The _whoosh_ing of the TARDIS grows louder until Dean can feel the vibrations in the hollow of his chest.

"Doctor!" Dean yells over the noise. "Are you sure this is going to work!?"

"It'll work!" the Doctor yells back.

"Are you—?"

"It'll work, it'll work!" the Doctor yells, forcing the lever down.

An ear-splitting _rip _echoes throughout the console room, and for a half second the room in quiet and peaceful—the eye of the storm.

But then an explosion of light tears through the TARDIS, blinding everyone.

Something large and moving fast hits Dean, and he's knocked over onto the floor.

When the light dies down, Dean finds someone familiar lying on top of him, fresh from a parallel universe and blue eyes bright with excitement.

"Hello, Dean."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: Not gonna lie... it gets pretty... _intense_ in this chapter. That's all I'm going to say. Anyway. Thanks for all the love, and I'm sorry the last chapter was so short. I'll keep the writing coming. Thanks so much for reading. Love you all.

-RaggedySherlock

* * *

**_CHAPTER 6_**

**_DAY 3_**

_The TARDIS_

The two words that Cas has said sent shivers down his spine. Dean smiles as wide as when he found Castiel in Purgatory. "Castiel." Dean puts his hands on both sides of Cas' face. "I missed you so much."

Cas leans slightly into Dean's hands. "I missed you, too."

"Would you two get up?" the Doctor says.

"Was he the only one to come through?" Dean asks, Castiel helping him to his feet.

"I couldn't risk anyone else. If I pulled another person through it could have ripped a wider hole, and then the universes would just be bleeding through to each oth—oh, whatever, you don't care," the Doctor says when he notices that Dean is paying more attention to Castiel than to what the Doctor has to say.

Sherlock puts his hands in his pockets, a faraway look in his eyes. Sherlock now has a better understanding of what Dean was talking about earlier—_you try to pass yourself off as above emotions, but I know the look; trust me, I know the look_—when he sees him with Castiel. Is that really how Sherlock looks when he's thinking about John? What about when he's with John?

Sherlock knows that Dean is actually quite smart. For an ordinary person, that is.

"Dean," Castiel says in a scolding tone. Sherlock is brought down from his thoughts and looks over idly to see what Castiel is fretting over. He is holding Dean's injured hand in both of his—the t-shirt bandage that is wrapped around it probably needed changing about two days ago. Castiel looks at Dean in an annoyed, angry and disappointed way—it's enough to make Dean not able to meet Cas' eyes. Sherlock cracks a smile at Dean's reaction.

The pair retreats upstairs to Dean's room when Castiel says that Dean will need stitches and the Doctor says that they can find a first-aid kit under the bed of any of the bedrooms in the TARDIS.

When the two have left, Sherlock sits on the steps, staring at the light from the console, lost in his thoughts.

"Sherlock," the Doctor says tentatively. "I'm sorry I—"

"It doesn't matter, Doctor," Sherlock interrupts.

"Yes, it does. He's still out there, Sherlock, we can still find him—"

"I like being alone."

"I can understand that. But no one likes being lonely."

There are so many things that Sherlock wants to say—_I grew up being alone, I can handle it. I've lived nearly my whole life being on my own. I don't care. Take me back home. I'll get over it. I'll heal. It doesn't matter._

But instead, he says, "He's the only thing that matters to me."

Sherlock silently curses himself for such a show of emotion—it shouldn't matter to him that Castiel came instead of John. But it does matter, and Sherlock knows why. Dean was right. He is in love. And it hurts in ways that he didn't know that you could hurt before. Sherlock has always had trouble with certain emotions and virtues—humbles, remorse, friendliness, sentiment—and he's always been scolded for not knowing what those feel like, or how to express it.

Sherlock was always a great man, but John made him a good one. Sherlock felt that John made him an even better person. And no matter what anyone said, John is not an ordinary man. No, he is not.

The Doctor looks at Sherlock with sad eyes. Sherlock and the Doctor are similar in many ways. They divorce themselves from anything that bring them hurt—like love, or sadness. Except the Doctor drowns himself in companionship, and Sherlock avoids it as much as possible; Sherlock hides it with arrogance and intelligence, and the Doctor hides it by travelling with random friends. Yet they still always end up being broken inside, they're still lonely. They still hate themselves.

But John… John made Sherlock forget that.

* * *

Dean and Castiel sit in Dean's room. Dean sits on the bed, while Castiel sits on a chair that he pulled up from the corner of the room. They first-aid kit sits on the bedside table, and in addition to bandages and a proper stitching kit, it has a banana, a warning sign to never go to the planet Midnight and to be wary of pears and beans, and receipt from a hat store, where a fez, Stetson, and top hat were all purchased.

Dean sits patiently as Castiel tends to the wound in Dean's hand.

"Dean," Cas says, untying the soiled t-shirt bandage, "just because you're alone doesn't mean that you can just not take care of yourself."

"I—Cas, you just disappeared out of _nowhere_. I didn't have time to go and give myself stitches."

"You had _three_ _days_, Dean." Cas stares at him for a second. "Just be grateful that it didn't get infected."

Dean sat patiently for the next half hour while Cas stitched the wound in his hand that he had gotten from the book in the library. Honestly, it hadn't been hurting that much these past few days, or at least Dean hadn't noticed. But now that Cas was here, Dean was aware of the throbbing underneath the skin. But he didn't care if it hurt. He was just glad that Cas was here, learning how to be a human, and how to be a hunter.

"Dean," Cas mutters, looking down at Dean's hand. "I'm—I know that you think I'm making progress as a human, but… but the truth is, I'm useless to you. And when we get back from all of this, when we get Sam back, I'm leaving."

"What?" Dean asks, startled. "Cas, you're sitting here _giving me stitches. _You aren't making a good case for yourself if you think you're useless."

"I'm not experienced, Dean," he says, looking away. "I'm just going to slow you down, when this mess gets cleaned up and the Doctor brings back the rest of them—I'm just going to hurt you. I'm not going to be fast enough, or smart enough. I'm going to make a bad choice, and then I'm going to get myself caught or trapped one way or another, and then you're going to feel obliged to save me." Cas ties a white bandage around Dean's new stitches. "I know you, Dean. And they know you too—the things we hunt. I'll get you killed, Dean."

Dean looks at Cas for a moment, and shakes his head. "Cas, it doesn't matter anymore. We're all cursed. They already know you're my weak spot, and if you went off on your own or something stupid like that, if you died…" Dean pauses for a moment, allowing Cas to fill in the blanks himself. "Anyway, it wouldn't matter. They would capture you, or hurt you, or whatever, and then I'd rush to your side anyway. And I know you'd do the same for me. So it's better to have you by my side where I can keep an eye on you anyway. It's too late to turn back now."

Dean stands, as well does Cas. He stays very close to Dean, but Dean doesn't try to move away or tell him to move away. There's a moment of silence, where Dean can tell that Cas is trying to come up with a better argument, but he knows that Dean's right. They have a weak spot for each other. They're at a stalemate.

"Besides," Dean mutters, "I need you."

Dean's palms grow warm. Of course, he's known this fact for a long time, but it's the first time that he's ever tried to fess up for his feelings for Cas. For all he knows, Cas might not even feel the same way. And that terrifies him.

"Dean," Cas whispers, "I know I am not very good with human emotions, not yet. But even when I was an angel, I knew I loved you."

There's a beat of silence.

Suddenly, Cas leans forward and presses his lips to Dean's, just briefly. Dean doesn't even have time to respond. He pulls away after a few seconds and looks at Dean, who stares back in surprise. But a second later Dean pushes Cas against the wall—pinning him there—and kisses him back hard, eyes closed tightly.

Cas breaks the kiss for a second, breathing hard. "I take it, the feeling's mutual?"

"Yes, you jerk," Dean says, smiling. He kisses Castiel's neck and jawline. "I love you. And don't you dare ever leave me."

Saying the words directly to Cas lifted a great weight off of Dean's shoulders. Dean winds his fingers into Castiel's hair and plants an open-mouthed kiss on his lips.

Cas never left Dean's room that night.


End file.
